To C

She was 18.

And a bit of a surprise.

I was addressing them for the first time, fired up and fresh from Sunday.  I can hear myself as the words flow faithfully as if from memory. But her gaze was different from the rest.  I caught it flew in interim, outward towards space. She was back fast enough.  But her eyes were overcast, eclipsed by a well made-up face. 

So the breakthrough came. They spoke, one after another, recounting stories, unloading weight upon weight as if I was some bare container.  Never mind that I had to take it all in; I treasured the moment. They did not fail to surprise. 

She was the last to speak. She hesitated at first, but after minutes of prodding from the others, she acceded. Then the tears came.  And that’s when I felt my heart stretch as if on reflex, with a compulsion that demanded urgency.   She knew how to hide herself pretty well.  Her demeanor spoke differently but her heart could not be contained.

The following week, I got to talk to her alone.  Her smile was different this time, hopeful and expectant.  I offered a billion times to accompany her to that place she did not yet belong to.  How my heart leaped when she wanted to name him (or could it have been a her?) after me.  Unbelievable, this girl.  Unbelievable. Enthusiasm filled her afternoon and mine. 

But it dissipated as quickly as vapor.  Like life.

She couldn’t be blamed, could she?  It was too late.  Much as we wanted the lad to owe up to the blame, to heck with attribution – as if it mattered now.  It might have been too late, but for C it was new life. They come at the most unexpected time and bring redemption if you grab them.

The young lad was as confused as she was. He had hormones that raged most haphazardly, and then the guts – and the gall – to lead innocence to slaughter.  This is what the world does – make boys out of emerging men and premature mums out of missies.

What adds insult to injury is not this reality but the normalcy that keeps it company.

I look at C. There’s one too many.